


worn things

by feralphoenix



Category: Deltarune (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Don't copy to another site, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 03:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: Noelle Holiday is doing just fine.





	worn things

**Author's Note:**

> _(ought to be shouting_ – The rain is speaking quietly, you can sleep now.)
> 
>  
> 
> please google reindeer hooves and then imagine that this princess mononoke-ass shit is what the holiday family's feet look like. you're welcome

The overhead light in the corner of the room is flickering. Its pattern is familiar now—three blinks and then a whining buzz as it goes dark for a minute, maybe two; then two to four lightning bug flickers and it turns back on. The florescent bulb must be on the verge of going out, you think—none of the hospital staff have noticed yet, or they just don’t care.

You find yourself watching that light in the times when you can’t concentrate on homework anymore and don’t want to look at your dad. It’s silly and not a good use of your time but it’s better than chewing your pencils and hating group projects and yourself but you can’t seem to make yourself stop. When your dad is awake you can just talk to him, but he’s awake less and less often now.

He still won’t talk to you about how bad it really is, probably trying to shield you from the vague and awful knowledge because you’re so fragile, and you can’t work up the courage to talk to the doctors because you’re such a useless coward. You _definitely_ can’t ask your mom. She’s barely home anymore anyway.

Mr. Dreemurr comes in to visit your dad every week with a new armful of gorgeous flowers, and your dad always turns red as his nose under his fur and makes the same old terrible Beast And The Beast dad jokes about it. Ms. Toriel came in once with a get well soon card, her hand like a vise on Kris’ shoulder as if to keep them from fleeing while they avoided eye contact and picked at their sleeves. You tried to suggest that Ms. Toriel let them go play the piano in the lobby but the words never quite made it out right.

The hospital room has gotten to be so familiar. You change the water for the roses and reread the get-well card without any of the words actually staying in your head. The dying light flickers. You hate the sound your hooves make on the tiles when you walk and you hate even more what it sounds like when you scrunch up your cloven toes so they scrape, but you can’t stop doing it. Anything not to think. Anything not to be scared.

“It’s not a big deal,” your dad keeps saying, his grin more like a grimace in between his coughing fits. You want to tell him that you know that’s bullshit, your mom isn’t around to frown at you for saying bad words, but the words won’t come out when you open your mouth so you just close it and look at the floor.

Maybe if you just wish hard enough you can make the light stop flickering and shine again the way it must have, and your dad will be discharged because this really IS just no big deal and you’re making a mountain out of a molehill again, and he’ll come home and there’ll be someone to let you in when you forget your key like a total airhead, and soon enough Asriel will be back from college too and everything really WILL be back to normal, complete with your dad yelling at Kris to get out of the light display while Asriel guffaws from _just_ far away enough to be out of the splash zone, definitely totally innocent as to how Kris got tangled in the cords for the umpteenth time…

Maybe if you just—wish hard enough, you could trade places with your dad, and read books and play video games and do homework from the hospital bed. It would be a nice break from Berdly, at least.

You’ve always been _curious_ about Susie but more and more you want to ask her what her secret is. She never talks to anybody and just does whatever she feels like doing, she’s so effortlessly tough and scary, she definitely doesn’t care about getting in trouble or what other people say about her. You’re sure Susie would _never_ wind up loitering on the street corner after school because she’s realized she’s forgotten her key again and needs the time to work up the courage to ask Catti for help, AGAIN, because she couldn’t possibly tell her parents. You don’t actually know if she has a mom and dad or what, but surely _Susie_ wouldn’t be scared to make her mom angry or care about embarrassing herself in front of her dad.

You know you could never be just like her even if you knew what her secret is—you’ve spent too long trying to be the goody two-shoes and not let your parents down—but if you could just get a _little_ bit tougher, a little bit less worried about what everybody else thinks, you bet your life would get so much better.

“Hey, c’mon, honey,” your dad says, and it’s the same old beloved tone of voice but his face is so hollow now. “Don’t make that face. It’s gonna work out just fine! I’ll be up and ready to kick that Nerdly guy’s ass any day now, you wait and see.”

 

 

Catti’s sister screams in delight when you show up at their house and actually picks you up and swings you around, she’s so happy to see her “honorary lil sis” yet again. Her dad makes jokes all through dinner about how you might as well move in at this point and you smile and say as little as possible.

After dinner, when you’re doing homework in her room, Catti looks up from her phone for the first time all night and stares at you from the corner of her eye.

“Are you, like,” she says, flat, “okay?”

You take a deep, deep breath and smile. You can feel yourself fracturing on the inside and if you say anything about it at all you’re not going to be able to keep up the façade again, not anymore, not ever.

“Yeah,” you tell her. “I’m fine.”

She shrugs and goes back to texting Jockington, or whatever she’s doing on that phone that definitely isn’t homework-related.

You go back to staring at your math worksheet and crumple the side of your skirt into a ball in your fist.


End file.
